


The Old Gods

by Bennet_Doyeni



Series: The Lore: A Homestuck Mythos [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Mythology - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-26 02:51:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 2,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2635295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bennet_Doyeni/pseuds/Bennet_Doyeni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world has all but forgotten the Old Gods, but a few shrines and handful of lore remains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Introduction & The Maid of Time

Gods, like all living things, die. There are more rule governing the death of a god, but they die nonetheless. And so, the gods that are now, have not always been. Before the eight that make up the Nobles and the Heroes there were the Old Gods. But how can this be I hear you say, for did not the Eight create the world? How could there be gods without dominions? Indeed the Old gods had dominion, but that was destroyed, leaving the void empty and waiting for the Heros who would reclaim space and time, light and breath from the void. Some sects believe that the Old Gods met the Eight, and that the Old gods aided them in reclaiming the world from the nothingness to which it had gone, but those sects are small - and quiet. Still, there are a few who visit the tiny, hidden, twelve-pointed shrines to the Old Gods.

 

* * *

 

There was a girl who died and yet continued to live. Her idols are the red of coals almost extinguished, glowing with the last dim light. Hers is the domain of Death, for who had died more times than her? Hers also are those struggling towards life: the robots and homunculi, the undead and the AI. She is the embodiment of those once hurt who will not be hurt again.

She died a thousand times to save her friends. Or so the stories go.

 

Her symbol is a beating heart, split in two, but still beating ♈. She has no dedicated temples, none of the Old Gods do, but if she did they would be near places of transition, colleges and borders, foothills and beaches; she is a God of transition, of change, of becoming. She has many forms: a girl - the stage of pre-becoming - the blank slate, a ghost - the beginning of the journey - the forfeiture of the self, a frog - the first step on the road back to life - the exploitation of weaknesses, a robot - the stage preceding life - the one who sacrifices herself for her friends, and a God - the culminating stage - the one who will not go back to death.

 

In a quiet corner of a busy metropolis there is a shrine to the twelve that the world has built around, as a tree grows around a stone. The air in the shrine is quiet and cool, and in front of the heart that is her symbol there is a small sculpture of a frog made from watch parts it is forgotten, and has mostly rusted through, its color matches the red of the heart.

 


	2. The Page of Breath

There was a boy who gained the courage to fly. His idols are the orange of clouds lit by the last breaths of sunset. His is the domain of Healing, for who needs healing more than a cripple? His too are those who struggle to stand against great obstacles: The weak and the oppressed, the crippled and the beaten down. He is the embodiment of those who stand against those whom they once loved.

He died on his own weapon, impaled by a friend. Or so the stories go.

His symbol is that of himself in death, a hole and two arms, but still defiant ♉. His temples would be smell of livestock - of wet wool and manure; he is a God of tending, of care, of cultivation. His followers recognized him as a God of processes, of slow journeys toward fulfillment. He is the God of small, steps towards a lofty goal.

In a small wood and thatch shrine near the sea, there is a shrine visited by only the elderly of a nearby village. The floor of the shrine is packed dirt, warm to the touch of bare feet. At the foot of his pierced body is a wheel from a child’s toy, placed there by a grandparent to protect their grandchild as they begin their journey.


	3. The Mage of Doom

There was a child who contained all possible opposites. A child of rage and apathy, of hope and despair. His idols are the yellow of the high, cool moon and the hot, scorched earth. His is the domain of siblings and nemeses, for who knows the fine line between love and hate better than she? Hers too are the ones that know too much too soon and too little too late. He is the embodiment of duality.

He died a half death, as was fitting, and lives only a half life, according to her worshipers.

Her symbol is a mirror, divided yet one ♊. His temples would be full of contradictions, in the loudest parts of libraries, in the most profane parts of churches, in old buildings with new purposes. A God of conflict her followers too were conflicted, divided amongst themselves but united in their worship.

At the top of an apartment building, there is a dodecagon carved, with a symbol of the twelve at each point. The sun is setting behind the cityscape and so, for a moment, at the point where their symbol lies, there is a place half in shadow. A place where the sun has both set, and has not set, where day and night coexist. In front of her symbol, straddling the line between light and dark, there is a pair of dual colored glasses.


	4. The Rogue of Heart

There was a girl who sat on the sidelines. Her Idols are the olive of light falling through dense canopy. Hers is the domain of the hunter, for who knows the brutal impartiality of the hunt better than one who has trod the fine line between predator and prey? Hers also are the scorned lovers and the timid admirers for what is love but another kind of hunt? She personifies those who find their roles reversed.

She died a hunter killed by her prey. To save her friend or to avenge him the stories do not elaborate.

Her symbol is the path of the sun, that rises and sets, as all things must ♌. Her temples would be direct, and purposeful; they would also be places of great art and beauty, since both the hunt and courtship are arts in themselves as well as being the inspiration for the majority of art. She is a god of the rejected and the frustrated, and her adherents are hospitable and charitable, yet firm in their beliefs.

In the depths of a museum of classical art there is a painting depicting a simple shelter. there in the doorway, so small it might be accidental, there is her symbol. Imperceptible to a casual observer, yet unmistakable once noticed.  Once the subject of much debate and controversy, the painting, like the old gods has fallen into obscurity. But even still, every now and then, the curators will find small offerings laying before the painting. Even now there lies in that spot a freshly cut rose.

 


	5. The Sylph of Space

There was a girl who created wonderful things. Her idols are the bright jade of a tender new sprout. Hers is the domain of preservation, for who hates change more than a mother? Hers too are the quiet rebels, those who fight without fanfare or vainglory, but to protect that which they love. She is the mother, creator first, but vicious when her creations are threatened.

She died in a chance flash of light and rage. According to legend, hers was a senseless death, one that furthered no end.

Her symbol is the M of the mother combined with the burden that she carries ♍. Her temples would be paragons of lighting, made of thin marble and translucent fabrics, for it is known that she had an attraction to light. Her temples would be places of healing and of refuge: places where the innocent could find shelter, and the guilty could find justice. Above all her temples would be a source of hope for all peoples. Her followers would be slow to anger, and unstoppable once roused.

  
In the oases in the depths of the desert, you can still find shrines dedicated to her, light things of airy cloth and impossible topiary. At one such shrine, a small token lies in a wooden offering bowl. A trifle, little more, but more homage than has been paid at that shrine in a lifetime. At the bottom of the bowl a sprig of rosemary withers in the late evening heat.


	6. Seer of Mind

There was a blind girl that saw what had to be done. Her idols are the teal of sky and sea when they blend together in the early dawn. Hers is the domain of the just, for who knows the line between justice and vengeance better than she? Hers too are those who seek balance, those who would reconcile what can be reconciled and destroy that which cannot. She is the judge and the jury, the prosecutor and the defence, for who knows balance better than the blind?

She died after passing judgement on the cosmos and, finding it lacking, she ensured it’s rectification with her blood. Her death restored hope, on this all the tales agree.

Her symbol is is that of the omega with her cane laid below it for her last work was the last word of the old world, ♎. Her temples would be stone through earth to sky, root through trunk to leaf, white through grey to black. Her temples would be places of justice and reconciliation, places where conflict is resolved finally, in one way or another. Her temples would be reminders of the judgement she has passed on the world, and the chance for renewal that she granted it. Her followers would be prudent, thinking well on all things before action.

In the forests of the north, the pilgrims still remember, still revere balance. There is a place where three old pines have fallen into each other in such a way that they still stand. Beneath those trees, there is an old wooden walking stick, carved in the shape of a dragon rampant, and lacquered to a deep red shine.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may be a bit biased...


	7. Thief of Light

There was a girl who beat the odds. Her idols are the deep blue of thermal pools, beautiful and deadly. Hers is the domain of the lucky, for who knows the whims of chance better than one who lives and dies by the rolling of dice? Hers too are those who, firm in their beliefs, are blinded to the consequence of their actions. She is the gambler, the caster of lots, the roller of dice; for who knows lady luck better than the gambler?

 

She died at the hands of a friend and was brought back by that friend’s dying act. On her death hinged the world, this is known.

 

Her symbol is barbed, like her tongue, and her friends, ♏. Her temples would be opulent to the point of extravagance, gold on top of gold on top of rubies and sapphires and countless priceless gems. They would be places of decisiveness and a haven for gamblers and thieves, her temples would be monuments to the power of chance and the destructiveness of light. Her followers would be brash, but calculating, knowing their strengths well and their odds better.

 

In a canyon far from civilization there is a cave, dark and filled with cobwebs, there are almost none living who know it, but those who do know it well. In that cave, there is a set of gambler’s dice, weighted for trickery, lying in the impossible position, weighted side up.

 

 


	8. Heir of Void

There was a boy who inherited nothing but sadness. His idols are the weighty indigo of the sky at late twilight. His is the domain of the forlorn, for who knows abandonment better than one doomed to inherit nothing? His too are those who put aside their position for their friends. He is a fighter without an opponent, doomed to self destruct.

He died in a fight he refused to win, and his death sealed another’s doom, or so the stories go.

His symbol is an arrow, broken like nearly everything in his life, ♐. His temples would be large and spare, great expanses of obsidian and lapis lazuli, columned caverns with ceilings reaching for the stars. They would be places of refuge, where those who wished to hide would always find a place, his temples would be truly neutral providing shelter from light and darkness alike. His followers would be self-aware, knowing their strengths and duties well.

On a mesa high above a ravine there is a cairn, made of granite and feldspar, it is tall and tumbling, barely recognizable as a construction, but a landmark nonetheless, used by travelers and guides. On each rock that makes up the cairn is his symbol, and from each rock flies a bowstring like wavings arms of spiders webs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead yet


End file.
